by Osku Alanen
“I can see that, clear as day. You are welcome to our halls, of course—all men seeking knowledge are. But do remember that we do not tolerate any sort of disturbance here; talk only when you need to—and with a hushed tone. And should you damage any of our priceless treasures, you will pay dearly—if not by coin, then by other methods.
Nijakim nodded, gravely. “We understand. Rest assured, our respect to your history is of paramount interest.”
The man’s frown vanished. The manner Nijakim held myself in seemed to satisfy the man. Arin had no doubt he was the one the scholar was hesitant about. He handed over a piece of paper to Nijakim. “Excellent. Please sign here and here.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the scholar said, pocketing the signed document. “You are now free to go. Could I, perchance, inquire what your line of research is?”
Arin pursed his lips. He had already shared their origins with both Ricken and Rhea. They had no knowledge of the masked men who had destroyed their village. Should he continue to be so… open? Rhea and Ricken he had grown to trust—this scholar hadn’t earned that right, yet. If they weren’t careful then, eventually, they might tell the wrong people. The men who attacked them had had been well-organized and ruthless—warriors or murderers, all. Arin was under no illusion they would let him or Nijakim walk free if they ran into them again. But then again, what could a harmless scholar do?
“We research the history of the order of Kun’urin. Have you heard of them?” Nijakim said.
It seemed like Nijakim no longer shared Arin’s hesitation—or perhaps he thought a scholar such as him trustworthy?
“The cult of so-called Daemoni-slayers?” the scholar answered. He sounded amused.
Arin shared a look with Nijakim. He looked eager. “Yes.”
“I hardly think research into that is worth wasting your time, I’m afraid. It is a well-known fact that the so called ‘order’ perished decades ago.”
The scholar’s belittling attitude was getting on Arin’s nerves. He pursed his lips, doing his best to suppress the anger he felt. “We have our reasons.”
The scholar shook his head in disappointment. “Well, I suppose you’re free to use your time as you please. Nevertheless, from whatever corner of the world you have traveled to Eyria, I’m sure there are lines of inquiry that would prove to be of more… probable importance. And, if I’m being perfectly honest to you, gentlemen, I hardly think these so called ‘warriors’ were the noble men they considered themselves to be. Their orators traveled from town to town, proclaiming that a horde of Daemoni would soon invade our cities, seeking to wipe us all out—a cataclysm of ages like the world had not seen for a millennium, if not more. They asked ordinary men and women to unite under them. No invasion came, of course. Eventually, men started calling them frauds. Madmen, even. I suppose even charlatans have their limits, indeed, for one day they no longer visited our marvelous city.”
Arin felt his cheeks turn red with anger. The man had said too much, gone too far. He grabbed the frightened man by his robes, lifting his shaking feet off the ground. “You lie.”
“G-gentlemen, put me down right this instant or I will have the guards throw you out,” the scholar whispered in a hushed tone, voice drowned by fear. It was evident he was not used to seeing violence. This was the kind of man Arin hated the most—arrogant, self-entitled know-it-all. One who considered himself a superior to those beneath his station. Yet, in a time of crisis, men like these showed their true colors; the same man—so full of confidence—now cowered before him. If not for Nijakim’s intervention, he would have liked nothing more than teach the man a lesson. He knew he had overreacted, but he couldn’t take the man’s insults any longer. He had endured too much.
“Arin,” Nijakim lowered his voice to a gentle whisper, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself. This is not the way.”
Arin breathed in and out with slow, steady breaths. He lowered the man to the ground.
“T-thank you,” the man swallowed nervously, looking over his shoulder. Several pairs of eyes now stared at them: they heard the crowd whisper the word ‘guards’. “What is the matter with you?” The scholar whispered. “Are you trying to get kicked out?”
A pair of armed guards were slowly walking towards them.
“Our apologies,” Nijakim said, sternly yet quickly. “Your hash words made Arin lose his temper. His behavior is unforgivable, yes, but would I ask of you to understand and listen, nevertheless. I assure you, our line of inquire is more practical than you could ever know—and of the utmost importance, for we both hail from the order of Kun’urin you think charlatans.”
Nijakim’s revelation appeared to ignite a hunger in the scholar’s eyes, for he signaled the guards that they weren’t needed. He stood silent for a considerable time, inspecting the two men standing before him. Arin could feel his temper fade, and now embarrassment was gaining a foot. What had he been thinking? As always, Nijakim was there to balance his temper with his wisdom. Arin could feel the scholar’s scrutiny, and he felt unnerved, but he held his ground. Whatever he thought of the man, he did seem to possess considerable intellect, and his help might be a substantial aid in their quest for justice.
Finally, the man replied. “Fine. I must admit I am intrigued. I will help you if you agree to two of my requests. One. You promise to share your tale with me. Two. You promise that your friend keeps his hands to himself. Should he so much as lay a finger on me again, I will have you two thrown out and jailed faster than you can blink.”
“We agree,” Arin answered.
“Good. Follow me, then. I fear all this… commotion has gained too much of a crowd to my liking.”
The scholar led them through a myriad of corridors in the labyrinth that was the Grand Library. Not much later, Arin feared he wouldn’t be able to find the entrance again on his own—the place was a maze. They passed through hallways, walked down stairs too numerous to count. Where was the scholar leading them? Eventually, they stumbled upon a chamber with no sunlight, and the scholar picked up a lantern of admirable integrity, likely as to avoid any possibility of starting a fire. Arin had no doubt this was their deepest fear—that a lone candle could erase centuries of knowledge thanks to a single man’s error.
The scholar then placed his secured lantern on top of a round table and motioned for Arin and Nijakim to sit around it. The lighting cast long shadows across the alcove, which made Arin feel anxious, for they seemed to live a life of their own.
“I believe I may have chosen my words poorly back there—my apologies for that.”
Arin acknowledged the man’s words, nodding.
“When I said I called the men of the Order frauds, I… misspoke. I was, of course, referring to the state of the order over the last few decades or rather, what they had been reduced to, ever since the Daemoni withdrew.”
“Withdrew?” Arin asked, confused.
The scholar nodded. “Yes. The last documented case where men crossed blades with the descendants of the god Erebus was over five centuries ago. Few texts remain from those times—all held in this very library—yet, they all collaborate this as fact. It was a decisive victory for the mankind—the end of an era. After that, sightings of the Daemoni have been few. They rarely leave the comforts of whatever hole they are hiding in—forests, swamps, caves. Some say they are biding their time, waiting for their master to return, but no evidence, of course, exists to prove that hypothesis. As for the Order of Kun’urin… well, their numbers dwindled along with the Daemoni. Indeed, their orators still preached in cities across the world, but their message fell on deaf ears; there was no need to gather armies to fight them. Kings everywhere—Eyria included—proclaimed the threat over. Mankind had prevailed. And, as often happens with the passage of time, history is quickly forgotten. The Daemoni still remain, yes, but the cases they attack men are isolated, and several factions have taken it to themselves to hunt those that do pray on humans, still. The Northmen have their Hunter’s Lodg
e. Then there are the mercenaries—eager to slay whatever monster yet preys on men.”
“Impossible,” Arin breathed, clenching his fists into tiny balls. What the man said couldn’t be true; Master Nazek himself had returned to the Three Peaks after decades fighting against the Daemoni—his very words. He had proclaimed just the opposite—that the struggle continued. That the Swords of the Order still worked relentlessly to bring unity against the Daemoni. But still… there was truth in his words, Arin had to admit. If the Daemoni were still a grave threat to mankind, why had they not seen one during their journey here? Where were the Daemoni?
The scholar shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s the truth, young man. The last reported sign of a warrior of the order in Eyria is over two decades ago, right around the time when the late King Robert was overthrown.”
The man pursed his lips, considering something. “Now, what is this nonsense about you belonging to the order?”
“Because that’s the truth,” Arin replied. “I am a Shield of the Order. The men who fought the Daemoni were Swords of our order—my brothers. I was tasked to protect our home, while my brothers fought against the Daemoni.”
Nijakim nodded. “Arin speaks the truth. He is a Shield of our Order. As for myself… I am a scholar.”
The scholar frowned, gently stroking his pearl-white beard. “Well, you certainly look the part, I must admit. What little records describe the Order, all speak of men with robes such as you wear with the same unkempt beards. I suppose you could be what you claim you are—or you are but beggars. But, then again, why would two beggars choose to pose as men of an order long extinct? It defies… logic. Tell me. If you truly are whom you claim to be, then why have you come here, after all these years?”
“Our home, the village of Kun’urin, was destroyed by men we could not identify. They destroyed our homes, our records. They slaughtered men and women, old and young, with no remorse. We escaped with our lives—barely.”
“And where, if I may ask, is this… village of yours?”
“High in the mountains, in a place we know as the Three Peaks, for it is where three tall peaks come as one. There are two villages there, one almost touching the sky, while the other resides much lower. While few men are allowed to enter, some are admitted into the lower village, but never into the upper village where our scholars and warriors train.”
When Nijakim mentioned travelers, he looked at Arin. It reminded him of the second reason they had come to Eyria—to find the truth about his heritage, and if the god saw willing, for him to find them.
The scholar gasped, slamming his fist onto the table in excitement. “I knew it! All evidence did seem to support those mountains to be the birthplace of the order. If what you’re saying proves true, you have brought before me answers to mysteries long left unsolved.”
“We do speak the truth,” Arin said. He was trying his best to keep his voice calm, but even now, the scholar’s tone was condescending, doubting.
“Oh, but I think I am inclined to believe you now, my small-tempered friend, but I’m not sure all my colleagues will—yet. But, as my teacher always lectured me of keeping my mind open should new knowledge arise, I am willing to listen—and aid you, if I can. Should your words prove true, I believe I can piece together a timeline of your order. So yes, what I propose is a mutually beneficial. Should you share your tale with me, I will do my very best to find the answers you’re looking for. Alas, I’m afraid I’m a busy man, and I have other errands to run. Mayhap we could meet again tomorrow, say, when the dawn breaks? What say you, gentlemen? Do we have a deal?”
“We agree,” Arin answered.
“Marvelous!” the man clapped his hands together. “Oh! And lest I forget, where are you staying for the night? If you don’t mind saying… you two could use a bath.”
“We are staying with a… beggar we met a day ago. I’m afraid the amount of coin we have in our possession is limited.” Nijakim answered honestly.
“I see,” the man muttered, pondering something. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all. Undoubtedly you have discovered that here in Eyria, we have certain… standards regarding how we dress and look.” He paused, sighing. “Here.” The scholar took a few coins from a pocket sewn into the inner lining of his robe, placing them into Nijakim’s open palms. “I believe that should suffice for a night or two. Might I suggest a tavern by the main road? There’s a respectable place there, one that’s particularly known for its nightly performances. It is often frequented by some very talented bards—the finest in Eyria, some might say.”
“Nijakim shook the scholar’s hand. “Thank you,” he whispered, looking the man with so genuine an affection that it made Arin feel almost jealous.
“Oh!” The scholar gasped. “You must forgive my manners, gentlemen. Amidst all this, I forget to introduce myself. My name is Totemar vas Recard, and I’m a scholar, schooled under the highly-esteemed Meridian vas Murandis himself, and an avid researcher into the history of our great kingdom.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Nijakim answered, shaking his hand eagerly.
The man nodded. He seemed to be in high spirits, a stark contrast to the frown he gave the first moment he saw Arin and Nijakim walk into the library. He motioned them to follow when Arin joked he wasn’t sure which was they came from. Arin let the scholar lead the way, while he quietly conversed with Nijakim.
“What do you think?” Arin asked.
“About?”
“Him. Totemar. Can we trust him?”
Nijakim shrugged. “Does it matter? We both have something we need. I believe he’s a serious scholar; as long as we have something to share with him, he’ll help us.”
“I agree. He was right about one thing, though.”
“Right about what?” Nijakim asked, perplexed.
“That you really do stink.”
Nijakim Chuckled. “As do you, brother. As do you.”
***
After careful consideration, Arin and Nijakim chose to spend half the coin Totemar had given them for new garments. He had been right; people judged them harshly for the state of their stained clothes, shooting disgusted glares their way. And their uncombed hairs and disheveled beards hardly helped, either. For however short a while they had spent in Eyria, Arin had gathered as much. And to think, that this was how ordinary men and women dressed here. He wondered how the royalty must dress like, atop this Royal Plateau of theirs—covered in pure gold, perhaps?
Eventually, they stumbled upon a store with prices they could afford. The robes they found were not unlike what the scholars here in Eyria wore. They discarded their old robes and changed into robes of almost pure white. They were much tighter than what Arin had gotten used to, and he feared he would rip the fabric apart should he engage in a fight. Much to his surprise, Arin discovered the robe could conceal his blade quite neatly; they had already gained long looks from guards passing them by, and Arin didn’t want to risk confrontation. Disposing of his old robes brought back memories—memories he had no wish to relive right now. Elder Kelmunir… why did he too have to die? To think Arin’s final worlds to him had been those of anger. And yet, the thought that the old man had kept hidden the location of his parents all this time… It made Arin feel both guilty and angry. And to think he now had no chance of closure with the man who was all but a father to him. The anguish he felt was too much for him, so he chose to suppress it. It is not the place or the time to mourn. And yet, Arin thought to himself, would there really ever be a correct time for it?
“What are you thinking, Arin? It looks to me like you are somewhere far away,” Nijakim asked, adjusting the belt of his new robes.
He made quite a dashing figure, Arin admitted, for he looked what he had always imagined a scholar would. If not for his thick, pitch-black beard, Arin had no doubt he would’ve fitted well with the other scholars of Eyria.
“Oh. I was just thinking of Rhea. I wonder how she and the child fare,” Arin lied. Why was it so hard t
o share this burden with him? Was he not his only confidant—the only person he trusted?
“Same here,” Nijakim sighed. “Perhaps once we’ve finished with Totemar, we can seek them out?”
Arin pursed his lips. “Perhaps.”
Satisfied how well their new garments fit them, Arin and Nijakim left the merchant’s store, and walked back to the grand plaza, now filled with people. They walked along the road, right past the statues they had first seen when they entered this strange city, comforted by the familiar sight. They had not explored much yet, fearing they would be lost. They walked in silence, as Arin found it difficult to speak, dark thoughts numbing his mind.
“There’s something else, isn’t there? Out with it!”
Arin showed a pained smile; Nijakim knew him well. It was time, isn’t it? He had avoided the words for too long already. “It’s my parents,” Arin sighed, fingers touching the pendant concealed beneath his new robe. The metal felt cold to his touch, but it brought him comfort, warmth. “Back when you were still held prisoner, Elder Kelmunir told me something… something about my parents.”
“What is it?”
“He told me that they were from Eyria. It is… the reason I suggested we travel here.”
“I see,” Nijakim said, nodding. “But why keep this from me? I would have understood, Arin. Better than anyone else.” He sounded hurt.
Arin flinched at Nijakim’s tone. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I kept it quiet. I guess I thought it… unlikely, you know? That after all these years, we could find any clue at all. I mean, where would we even start?” Arin sighed.
Nijakim poked his finger at Arin’s chest. “You have that memento, don’t you? I know you always carry it with you. If we search hard enough, I’m sure someone here will recognize it.”
The pendant! Why had he never thought of it? A thought entered Arin’s mind. “Do you think Totemar might? He’s a scholar, after all.” Arin asked, his eyes widening in excitement.
Nijakim smiled. “My thoughts exactly. It’s worth a shot, at least.”